The Winter War
by pearypie
Summary: He takes her with passion, relentless in the worship of her body - wanting to claim her until she belonged to him, wholly and completely. Or, General Klaus Mikaelson is Napoleon Bonaparte's most decorated officer and Lady Caroline Forbes is France's most sought after courtesan. Love for two such creatures is rare - especially in the wake of 1812. Historical AU. All Human. [hiatus]
1. Chapter 1

He rips the gown from her body, dagger slicing through the fanciful ribbons that hold together her bodice and laces - hands quick and steady, branding her soft flesh with the tantalizing kiss of sin. She's aching all over before the torn dress falls to her feet and she steps from it, one leg sliding up to wrap around his waist, lips locked against his own as they kiss - teeth and tongue and fire.

She claws at his bare shoulder blades, having torn the doublet away some time ago; heard his low chuckle at her eagerness. He tastes like bourbon - bitter and sharp, rich and golden; she wants to smother herself underneath it, have it weigh down her lungs until she can breathe no longer.

But Klaus is a selfish man; one who takes what he wants even though it is not his to touch. He resents himself as much as he revels in his own glory - paradise entrenched in the ninth ring of hell, Klaus rules over his domain as he does her body.

His fingers are long and dexterous, an artist's hands that now trace down her back, cup the softness of her bottom and heave her up against the cool rosewood wall. But that's when the cool deftness of his hand melds away into rough callouses and frenzied want; the battering taken from military life that he commands is forever imprinted into him, sword and self.

It's just a different type of sin, he whispered into her ear when they first met. No different than the sorrow of death - for Klaus's deaths are glorious feats of triumph. Those who fall can claim - for one shining moment - to have stood toe to toe with the armies led by the great Wolf, solitary in presence but always surrounded. Guards and generals and foot soldiers around as he orders the left flank forward, rushing towards the enemy in careless disarray; deceiving them into plunging down from their hilltop and into the valley crest below.

It's there he pounces.

Without another word, Klaus slams Caroline's hands against the woodwork; pinning them both atop her head, bound by his fist as he lashes out. His canines dig into her unblemished skin and her lips have already been painted the loveliest shade of vermillion; she moans wantonly as his other hand cups her ass, sliding forward - almost teasingly - to the warm haven down _the_ \- oh! Caroline pants, breasts full and ripe, chest heaving as she thrusts her hips forward and Klaus only tightens the grip on her wrists - the hot flush of her body juxtaposing with the wintry cool of the rosewood.

On the battlefield - it's all laid out, ever so simply. The first militia supplied by Klaus coming forward to surrounding, the calvary charging at the disarmed enemy - their swords slicing through soldiers necks. Boys of eighteen dropping down, choking on the lifeblood that once gave them youth, blood that once gave them hope. Swords are caked with the broken organs of the defeated, with the great cobalt general riding forward atop his stallion; he is Ladon to his people. He is death to all others.

When he finally thrusts into her, Caroline's body quakes and quivers - an angel's glow coming upon her cheeks as the devil defiles her, lovingly so. She screams and urges and pleas, legs wrapped around him as Hydra would his treasures. There is something so very grotesque in the way Klaus tears down her neck, biting and nipping as he releases his seed into her body and she sees nothing but him. He who holds her now, ever so gently; cradling her body to his chest for she is never to touch the ground again.

She is his.

Klaus lays her on the bed - satin sheets of raging violet, the holiness of altramentous eve cloaking a pavilion of stars so softly that Caroline wants to sob into his shoulder, weep for the beauty of it all. He kisses her then, as the ticklish night air sways into the aerial villa; open arches welcoming it in, cooling the sweat on their skin.

"Defy it all." she whispers into his ear. "Battles are plentiful, victories for you - even more so. Don't chase tomorrow."

His hands slip beneath her body, caressing her back, palms pressed against her skin as she lays underneath him. "Tomorrow is _mine_. Never fear for me, love."

Her hands glide over his chest, coming behind his neck to his hair; she pulls on it urgently, panic arising. "Death will follow the battle. No party will emerge alive."

"You've been reading too many fairytales."

" _No_." her delphinium eyes search his but Klaus can't be bothered to read her fear; he seems incapable of quantifying such an emotion.

All he sees are summer eyes, fluttering black lashes - and love. Beautiful, tremulous love. How he _adores_ her, the fixed point of the world originating from her soul alone. He wants to soothe her worries, for they waste away her smiles and tear into his agonized heart like a frenzy of harpies.

"Sweetheart - "

"Napoleon is not infallible." she murmurs harshly, pulling him closer, their legs intertwined as he lays on top of her. "No man is."

"I don't rely on Napoleon for my triumphs." he reminds her, fingertips tempting her flesh. "I've delivered for him half the world and tomorrow will be no different."

"Russia is not like anywhere else." Caroline argues fiercely, the sunshine of her voice giving way to an accent softer than snow. "It _isn't_ and Monsieur Bonaparte - "

His fingers find her sex and she stops, stunned as he pulses into her and she feels her heartbeat rise.

"Be mine." he demands, he commands.

"I _am_." she returns breathlessly, body arching to meet the length of his fingers - long and rough and…

* * *

When she awakes on the morrow, he is gone and love letters are left behind.

In the beaming dawn of June's gentle kiss, Caroline kneels at the foot of their bed - naked and bare - praying for him. Praying for the bastard son of a war criminal who she should never have come to love.

Praying for the father of her unborn child.

* * *

 **A/N: Yeah, Klaus is rushing into the Patriotic War of 1812. Also known as the French Invasion of Russia. Things might not be as peachy as he expects it to be over there...**

 **Brave Illusions WILL be updated! The date of when has just been elusive.**

 **Hoped you all liked this tidbit. Historical AU's are my absolute favorite!**


	2. Chapter 2

The misty June sunshine filtered through Tuileries's white marbled halls with lackadaisical pleasure, swollen on the fat of fresh victories and newly conquered territories. The year is 1809 and France's rise to an empire of a thousand years has been implemented and rejoiced upon - Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, the French cry, instills new life to the sickly and grants happiness to the weary. He is great, people sing, he is worthy; the humiliation of the Austrians during the great king's Fifth Coalition will now be set to eternal song.

The victory at Eckmühl has been glorious indeed, with Napoleon sweeping half the Austrians in the Southwest back with one decisive hand, capturing Abensberg with the pride of delphinium and crimson snow.

The Archduke's surprise coalition had failed and the Emperor had conquered again - yet, in the revelry of victory, there stood the end maker of the battle in newfound triumph. He was, the French army murmured, an expatriate of England whose father had once been someone of great importance but now did not matter in the least. His elder brother was a judge of some sort - perhaps for the powdered wigs who did nothing but feast - and his younger brother lived in Paris, as vainglorious and drunk as any conquering nave.

Napoleon himself had been inspired to recruit this fountainhead (though no one quite knew _why_ ) but the aftermath was remarkable. Commanding a melange of troops - German and French and whatever other nationality there was -, this Englishman had battled, on the 22nd of April, the bloodiest and most ferocious of Austrian defenses to capture the mouth of Eckmühl - it's transportation, it's necessity: the grand bridge near Eckmühl's trade centers and the chateau that oversaw all commerce.

But the halls whispered of something greater yet, something so tremendous in its excess and vermillion brilliance that it had been the reason for Napoleon's praise: turning back from Eckmühl's devastation, the English lieutenant had seen the Hapsburg calvary approaching before the Emperor had even given orders of attack. And then - in audacity so blatant that anyone else would have suffered death - the lieutenant commandeered charge of the French calvary, commanding it to besiege the Vincent Chevaulegers in a battle where French artillery was limited, men weakened, and assault heavy.

And yet they won.

The Bavarian retreat began and the Champion of Worlds - Napoleon Bonaparte - had called this reclusive Englishman into his quarters and given unto him the honor of _general_. Had lavished lands and titles aplenty, inviting this cobalt eyed, aureate haired deviant into his capitol. Into Tuileries.

Into the heart of France.

* * *

"And what have you to say now, you vile, wicked count? All the world's sins falling upon your shoulders and you! You - clutching onto them like a cloak; you disgust me, true and wholeheartedly. And for that, I must leave you."

"No!" he cried, grasping onto her white chiffon sleeve, "everything I have done, everything I _will_ do - will all be in your honor. In your glory, in your - "

"You think me so low that I should want my name forever associated with slavery and death and debasement? You believe I shall _want_ for this sickness when oh…" she furrowed her brows. "Dear Charles."

The man opposite her blinked owlishly. "What is it? Is it the pronoun? The enunciation?"

She shook her head. "No, no - you're wonderfully adroit in grammatical script but Charles, is sickness the right word? Perhaps something more…fervent? He has just enslaved her entire hometown and killed her childhood companion - the word should be more than 'sickness' - something much more dramatic, this is the climax!" Caroline waved the script away, standing upright in all her margarite glory, cheeks flushed with new passion. "Think of something spectacular - something so dazzling and awful and tribunal! He must feel the need to offer his whole heart to her in an attempt to reconcile their love."

Charles Gabriel Deshaies Duclos, playwright and author, frowned. "Yes…" he plucked up his quill quickly, expression tense, hesitant to admit his error. "Yes, that _would_ be better, hm? Something more…"

"Hopeless." Caroline supplemented, the swish of pale rose skirts fluttering behind her, Tatiana's floral cape incarnate. "You write so beautifully and tragically that I feel you must break all our hearts so that we may no longer be blind."

Duclos snorted in a most inelegant manner as he sat behind his writing desk. "And who are we to blame for our infirmity? The golden eagle who hovers above us all?" his disdain for the great emperor had never been discreet and now - with his brother in armor - Charles Duclos felt an even lesser need to pay tribute to their king. "He is a man, just as we all are."

"Yes but his divinity is reaffirmed in his conquests, just as yours are in writing." the blonde haired woman recounted firmly, though the dimple on her right cheek - the one she could never suppress when amused - appeared with her low, curving smile. "Try your best not to get beheaded anytime soon." she requested sunnily, "I'm hosting a garden party later and it would be a dreadful bore if you were not present."

"A dreadful bore? Why, I should think your fellow courtesans would be rather upset to hear themselves referred to as little more than ornamental china"

"Don't be silly!" Caroline corrected cheerily, walking briskly to Duclos's side, "they're much less expensive than china these days." she grinned exaggeratedly, feeling immense glee as Duclos lost his composure - ever so briefly - and buckled into a fit of laughter, the ink on his quill drying as he succumbed to mirth.

"Come away now you meddlesome child," he chided mockingly. "I'll never finish anything with you quipping about behind me."

Caroline pouted. "Oh, you enjoy my quips as much as I enjoy your scowls. Dear Charles," she sighed dramatically, feigning a swoon as she knelt down by his chair side, "whatever shall I do for the rest of this dull, dull afternoon? All the men have yet to return from war and I find female company lacking since all the tolerable women have married and made homes in Lourmarin." she frowned. "How terribly parochial."

Charles flicked his feathered quill at Caroline's golden curls, smirking as he did so. "Do not mock what you cannot have, _ma fraise_."

"I am not!" Caroline protested, peckish at his admonishment. "Why would anyone want to leave Paris for somewhere as provincial as Lourmarin? I am - "

"A fly buzzing about my ear while I am trying to compose."

"You are a dreadful thing today, Charles." she placed her forearms on the gilded support of his blue silk bergère, resting her chin on top with a most mournful discontent. "Have you no pity for your dearest, darling friend?"

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in defiance as he continued to inscribe. "You, _ma fraise_ , are rotten today. And I am busy - bother some other fellow unfortunate enough to have been seduced by your charms!"

"Why, you're a crocodile this afternoon, Charles." Caroline chuckled, lifting her head to look at him. "A fuming, red cheeked crocodile." she tapped her finger on his nose, causing the older man to glare down at her disparagingly.

She smiled - sweetly so - and for a brief moment, Charles wondered if she knew that he would lay the world at her feet if she'd only said _yes_. He would have married her in an instant, moved to whichever city she wanted and spent the rest of his existence devout in her honor.

"Ah, Charles - write me something beautiful, won't you? They will never allow me on the stage but I can at least be content knowing no one will vocalize your script as beautifully as you have written it." she gave him another bright, beaming smile, leaning over to press a kiss on his cheek before rising and - almost ethereally so - glided out of the room.

And Charles - quite alone in his grand, baroque study - knew that the next words to come from his quill would be dedicated to her memory.

As they always have.

* * *

Elena Georgieva Kochanova - or, Elena Gilbert as Caroline Forbes had christened her early on - dashed quickly to the sunroom of her dear, blue eyed companion. For the past week Elena had been scarce in company to anyone save the French admiral, the one who would be sent away on some assignment in the Netherlands on Napoleon's return; as such, he had wanted all the comfort the Bulgarian beauty had to offer.

It was with great and extreme reluctance that Elena had shut herself away from the outside world - missing two galas hosted by Empress Joséphine and one of Caroline's luncheons - for the sake of Admiral Killian Brugière. He was a generous lover, she admitted - a bit aggressive at times and somewhat obsessed with Elena's hands - but an overall pleasant fellow.

But no amount of pleasantry, however expensive, was going to allow Elena to miss the Great Return. His most gracious majesty's Grand Armée had just signed the Treaty of Schönbrunn after a magnificent defeat of the Austrians and a near conquering of Austria itself. Now, Elena knew, the men would want to see all the courtly graces they had been deprived of on the battlefield and she was most eager to visit Colonel Frédéric Beauvau, the dark haired army commander who was quietly sending her enough emeralds to construct a palace.

Bursting into the lemon yellow sunroom, Elena was greeted by the sight of Lady Caroline Forbes, lounging despondently atop a ocean blue chaise as she read some ancient tomb, dust still floating about it.

"Why hello you terrible chit." Elena grinned, making her way across the spacious, high ceilinged chamber with its gilded settees and delphinium chaise a bureaus. Rosewood tables were low and flat, supported by carved lion's claws pointing east and west as they rested atop heavily threaded gold and vermillion Persian rugs.

Elena chuckled. "Don't tell me: these rugs were a gift from that besotted duke you've been seeing since Christmas last year."

"You mean Lucrèce Adnet with the other seventeen names and titles that I can't be bothered to remember? Yes, it is from him." she sighed. "A wonderful gift really, but now I have no idea how to avoid him without feeling utterly wretched."

"You could marry him." Elena sat down on an burgundy caquetoire, "it would be the most efficient way to ensure his invisibility in your presence."

Caroline laughed. "If only there were such a way. The poor man is to be married - and very soon from what I have heard - to a Dane, it'll be a lovely imperial ceremony." Elena gave a noncommittal hum as Caroline frowned slightly. "She's very pretty, you know. Pale blonde hair and very fine bone structure - she has a gap between her teeth but Lucrèce said he doesn't mind because it means she will be a more humble sort of woman and - "

"Caroline, dearest, you're rambling."

The blonde bit her lip, appearing more hesitant and tentative than the dark haired courtesan could ever remember seeing her. "Elena," she began, putting aside her book with an almost reluctant caress, "do you ever think of the black anguish that could come in the near future - one that rides on the back of spinsterhood?"

The brunette raised a brow. "And why should I? With companions such as yourself who seem to want to live forever…" she grinned, watching with some worry when her fair friend continued to frown. "Caroline, do tell me what the matter is."

"I…oh, now that I think back on it, everything seems as preposterous as a hippopotamus. Perhaps - it was just Charles, really…he's always in such a terrible disposition when he can't finish writing one of his plays." she added knowingly, as if that small clarification was the answer to all her woes.

Elena leaned forward from her chair, resting her elbows atop her knees. "Don't repress Caroline - you're far too good at that already. I won't have you a miserable child of woe when the army strides into the palace this evening."

Instantly, as if her words had been a universal panacea, Caroline's heart shaped face became flushed with joy. "You mean the troops are coming home this very day?" she sat up suddenly, the brightest smile painted on her full rose lips as she nearly bounced up in excitement. "Oh, how miraculous! Just as I was beginning to despair over the long years ahead, our Emperor seizes victory to return all our wonderful men home! I think I shall spend an entire day praying, just for him."

"Oh, do be realistic."

"Alright, then." Caroline sniffed, smile still plastered on her face, "I shall spend the morning in prayer but after that, adulation shall be my companion and a duke - my conquest!" she fell dramatically back on her chaise, the exuberance and energy of a new spring orbiting round her person. "And the Englishman - oh, I want to meet the Englishman!"

"You mean the new general? Nicholas?"

"It's Niklaus." Caroline corrected primly, the picture of piety whilst she constructed her plan of attack. "Though, he's no longer _really_ an Englishman from what I've heard - he is French now; as French as you and I."

"I'm _Bulgarian_ , dearest."

"Some difference." she pointed out smilingly. "And I should like to think with similar possibility as well." Caroline paused. "Do you suppose he speaks French? I know a bit of English but if he is a virtuoso then I will need to recover some good English tunes to entertain him with." she then made a face, as though the task itself was too difficult to even comprehend. Finally - "But then again, there are so few. You don't think he'll be opposed to Beethoven, do you?"

Elena laughed.

* * *

On night of the return, Lady Caroline Forbes - a courtesy title, naturally - looked more radiant than the June dawn. Bedecked in a gown of champagne gold, diaphanous in its embroidered organza and hand sewn white diamonds, Caroline's fleur-de-lis eyes emanated all the youth of France, bolstered by her exuberance to see life restored within the marble halls of the palace. To hear the laughter of woman as they ran down the corridors, skirts bunched at the knee, playfully escaping from whichever nobleman caught their fancy that day. Caroline wanted to see the beautiful baroque ballrooms dimmed with chandelier light once more, to see the sway of ball gowns in every hue shimmering while ladies danced; she adored looking at scenes such as those. Every movement a picture; Caroline felt as if she were seeing things through a glass of champagne, impressionist images shaded in the brilliance of a last sunset.

Since the great Emperor's campaign of conquest, there had been minor galas hosted by his empress but none so magnificent as before; her majesty Joséphine refused to squander more supplies than necessary. The dark haired regent Joséphine knew full well the distress war could bring - the unpredictable nature of it; perhaps that was why Napoleon had married her. She was the essence of all he hoped to build; warmth and comfort juxtaposed with an intensity and passion that rivaled his own. Once, Joséphine had told Caroline that the younger courtesan reminded her of springtime, of new youth.

It was the greatest compliment Caroline had ever received.

Running down the halls now, Caroline berated herself for have stalled so long - the sun shaped diadem she had woven into her curls had suddenly fallen off and Elena had long since left to attend to some monsieur. As such, Caroline was left with no way to braid the diadem back on and, in a fit of panic, Caroline had stripped the tiara of its topaz sun and run it through a chain of platinum so bright that it appeared to be a string of diamonds. From the old geography books she'd read with her father, Caroline remembered the beautiful caramel skinned enigmas of the east - with their charcoal hair and wide, wide eyes: jeweled headdresses glittering atop their heads.

Taking a deep breath, Caroline smiled prettily at one of the doormen who was sudden struck speechless, staring at her with lustful eyes.

"Would you mind very much opening the door?" Caroline pointed, smile still in place.

"Um…the door. Yes. Yes! The door, of course." he fumbled terribly with his silk gloves for a moment before managing to get a grip on the grandiose handle. "Er - you…you wouldn't happen to be…Lady Caroline, would you?"

She blinked. "Unless that bourbon was something else entirely, yes - I do believe I am. Would you like to inspect my papers?" Caroline inquired jokingly before taking another step towards the door.

The pale faced young man shut it, abruptly.

Caroline frowned. "Excuse me, but I really do - "

"Spend the night with me." the stutter had gone out of his voice and his body - not terribly imposing but still heavier and taller than Caroline's own form - loomed over her suddenly. "No one'll miss you in there." he reached out for her and instinctively, Caroline side stepped him with all the expertise of a ballerina.

This gown had cost Caroline far too much and she was _not_ going to waste it without a proper audience to see her beforehand.

"I do apologize if I have, in some way, caused you to misinterpret anything - "

"No, the moment you said you were Lady Caroline, I knew you were fair game." he chuckled lowly, immensely pleased with his deduction and thesis. "I thought that you were a noblewoman at first but since you're not, no one'll be bothered to look for you. We can be together."

 _This man is utterly delusional,_ Caroline cringed and resisted the urge to slap him for his most offensive remark. "If by 'together' you mean legions apart and separated by blockade, then yes, let us go by that definition. Dare to even come a step closer and I shall personally ensure that you spend a lifetime locked away in the gallows, with men of sharp knives and plentiful time. Tell me, have you a fancy for mutilation?" she lifted her chin, eyes narrowing. "Whatever base desire you've been nursing since the beginning of this evening - I advise you to suppress it and do your duty."

"I'll do my duty as a man see if fucking you is as good as they say." this time, he trapped Caroline's wrist between his bony hand the door behind her. "What's underneath that pretty gown of yours, anyhow?"

For all her years as a courtesan, Caroline had never once been manhandled so crudely! She felt indignation and fury rising in her chest.

"Why, you pig! You filthy, intolerable vagrant. A rotting sack of meat is what - " she felt the air leave her lungs when his other hand came to knock against her throat, holding her in a near choke hold.

 _What on earth have men devolved into?_

He leaned in close, inhaling the warm lavender scent of Caroline's skin. "Haven't been able to catch a lady these days."

Caroline frowned. _Catch a lady…? Oh -_

Adélie.

"You…you were the one who defiled Adélie, weren't you?" Caroline choked out, nails digging into his papery skin at his smug glower.

She felt bile rising up.

"She was only _fifteen_ you monstrous bastard…my god, that was the reason why she was sent away to Normandy. Why she left so…" her words faded as he tightened his grip on her. "You complete _monster_." Caroline's nails immediately sunk into his flesh, uncaring of his sudden yelp as she began to claw and tear, bracing her waist against the doors and using the pointed heel of her shoe to scar his bony knee. Within seconds, his grip loosened enough for Caroline's lithe form to duck under and escape his reach.

Barely having time to catch her breath, Caroline cursed the fact that all the guards had been stationed to the west wing entrance, leaving all the back corridors near empty.

With a sudden jerk, the doorman had grabbed Caroline by her glorious golden hair, throwing her back so that she stumbled, toppling onto the marbled floor. Lifting her head, Caroline saw him storming towards her, eyes wild.

"I'll show you whores how a proper man can - "

"I think you've demonstrated your lack of intellect all too well." a refined, distinctly cool voice echoed from the shadows.

Uncaring who it was, Caroline scrambled to her feet, nearly falling over again from the weight of her gown as she fell onto a pillar, grasping it with her shaking arms.

"Who's there? I'll cut you open I - "

From the corner of her eye, Caroline saw the monstrous bastard pull out a silver knife, pointed and sharp.

A scoff echoed down the hall. "You'll do nothing of the kind. Most likely, you'll spend the rest of your life dying of the plague in some poorhouse if mercy is on your side, which, given these circumstances, I very much doubt."

"You can't scare me with your fancy talk, you no good coward." the rapist sneered. "I'll show you what real battle is!" he began to charge towards the shadows, arm raised in attack before a hand shot out from the darkness, hand grasping the other man's wrist so tightly Caroline saw his fingers turn white.

"Raising a hand to an unarmed man," the gentlemen - with his face still obscured by the moonless night - smirked, "this'll be an amusing tale to tell when it is you without any limbs."

Caroline knew she should turn her head away, close her eyes - for goodness sakes, she should have run away by now! - but instead, she peeped out from behind the marble pillar, entranced by the scene before her.

Without so much as a sound, the darkened stranger easily twisted the doorman's wrist left, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from her almost captor before the gentleman kicked him to the ground with a swift and merciless blow to the stomach. Crouching down, Caroline saw dark gold hair as he wretched the knife from the doorman's hands, pointing the blade at his throat.

"The lady there called you a pig and I'm inclined to agree - a squealing, frightened sow is what you are, Andre."

Whoever the man was, the doorman - _Andre_ \- must have recognized him as Caroline watched his eyes grow round with fear, lower lip trembling.

"P-please, m'lord - don't - don't kill me! I, please - I didn't mean to! Forgive me, mercy!"

The blonde haired gentleman clicked his tongue in disgust. "Is this how a, what did you call yourself? A real _man_ dies? Begging for his life like some helpless child? Then again, I doubt you're even capable of comprehending the idea of combat when every battle you've fought has been against those who can't fight back." the knife pressed down against Andre's throat, drawing a think trickle of blood to the surface.

The man squealed, like a swine for slaughter.

"And now, when you have been granted the opportunity to truly fight all you can do is lumber about like a blind drunkard, holding his hand out her mercy when defeated. You don't deserve to live."

"M-m-my lord! P-please - "

Caroline hardly drew half a breath in when she saw the gleaming silver knife leave the man's throat and press against Andre's papery hands, still red with her scarring. She had never before seen a man's hand removed but the process, she was sure, would never have been so quick had it been from any other man.

The blade - which had looked stupid and clumsy in Andre's hands - came down upon flesh and bone as Artemis's bow, separating hand from wrist with one decisive blow.

Vermillion blood coated the marble floor, pooling about the quivering man as the officer (by now, Caroline was sure he was an officer) kicked him aside with one polished nudge from his boot.

Then he set his eyes on hers.

Caroline was struck by cobalt - nothing else but it. The color of a raging summer storm, volatile in its verity and piercing through Caroline's core.

"My lady. You did not have to be present for this." he said calmly, almost flippantly as he tossed the knife to the ground with a careless throw.

Her hands were still clutching at the pillar as she nodded. "I…I am aware, sir. But I had not expected to be accosted by a beast made man."

Within four strides, the officer was standing only a foot away from where she stood, countenance more amused than weary. Death, she then realized, did not affect him.

"Oh, I assure you he's not dead. Merely frightened himself to a fainting spell as the elderly do when they're near senile."

"You're very crude." Caroline returned, half breathless as she continued to glare down at Andre's fallen form. "And he is a fool."

"Fool he may be but death will come for him slowly."

Caroline head jerked up, eyes burning as she met his own. "And why should he be granted mercy, sir? He raped and defiled an innocent girl and who knows how many more before her? He ought to have that extremity removed and then be dragged through the streets for all to see his shame."

"I admire your vision, my lady, but such a punishment - though humbling - would end far too quickly." he took another step forward and Caroline cared not whether he was to reproach her or laugh at her. "Have you ever seen a man starve, my lady?" his voice was as cool as silk, caressing his words as cobalt locked on cerulean. "A despicable way to go. Hair falling, skin eroding, bones slowly making their way to the surface and, given enough time, breaking through flesh while the dog who starves eats the dirt of the earth, crawling on his belly as the serpent did before Eve."

"Is that how men die in war?"

He gave a slight nod and when had he come so close? Caroline could not remember him stepping forward, tucking one forefinger under her trembling chin. "The glory of war is lost to those on the battlefield and revived only through an artisan's words. I have seen many men pass as he shall but so few of them have been granted the mercy of beauty beforehand."

"You speak now in flattery, sir, and I do not like it."

He seemed amused then, raising a brow as a smile danced on his lips. "Oh? You would have me deny the truth and say what?"

"I gave him nothing of the sort. I clawed his hands off me as proudly as any lioness could have." she titled her chin in defiance. "Do not make me to be an angel sir, you know me not."

"And you flatter yourself so when all I have said was of your pretty face. Even Scylla was once beautiful before the gods took away her dew and made her a demon of the straight."

She gritted her teeth, the remains of her fear dissipating upon hearing his words. "Do you believe I shall turn into Scylla if I do not swoon and blush at your flattery, sir? Praise from the giver does not warrant praise from the recipient."

"Of course not." he gave a small bow of concession, "but I had at least hoped - foolishly, it would seem - that ridding you of this coward would at least grant me the favor of a name?"

" _A_ name?"

He chuckled. "Indeed. I won't delude myself into believing you could be honest with me now - "

"Then you spit first on my character and now on my honor!" she turned her head away, golden curls streaming behind her as she made to return to her chambers before a thought struck her. Turning around, she saw the tall and proud army officer - bedecked in black and gold - smirking at her like a cat holding the cream.

Oh! The arrogance of man!

"My name is Lady Caroline Forbes, sir. And you would do well to remember it."

He gave her a conciliatory bow that she hated because it was too elegant and too graceful and too regal.

"Allow me to one day reimburse you for your time, my lady." he raised his head and Caroline hated how that smile of his remained in place. "Niklaus Mikaelson, at your every whim."

* * *

 **Fifth Coalition: ended with the French imposing the harshest treaty upon the Austrian Empire that included Austria ceding its territories of Carinthia, Carniola, and the Adriatic ports to the French. It did not, however, lessen any of the hostilities of the Peninsular War (which is key in this story and Napoleon's defeat) but resulted in a Franco-Austrian alliance through the marriage of Napoleon to Princess Marie Louise of Austria.**

 **Vincent Chevaulegers: the greatest Hapsburg calvary regiment whose soldiers were reputed for their bravery and skill.**

 **Empress Joséphine: the first wife of Napoleon Bonaparte who was adored by the Emperor but whom he divorced after he realized she could no longer bear children. The divorce proceedings was more than unusual: a grand ceremony was held on January 10, 1810 where Napoleon and Joséphine stood side by side and read vows of devotion to one another. Even after divorce, Napoleon insisted Joséphine retain the title of empress.**

 **A/N: Thoughts?**


End file.
